


Can It Be Christmas?

by wocket



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Family, M/M, New Year's Eve, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22234471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: A mysterious stranger shows up at your door on Christmas (it's Tim - it's always Tim).
Relationships: Mike Fortier/Lori Fortier, Tim McVeigh/Mike Fortier
Kudos: 1





	Can It Be Christmas?

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this two weeks ago for Christmas but that never happened. Oh well.

It’s mid-afternoon on Christmas Day when you pick up a phone call from Tim. “Where in the world is Tim McVeigh?” 

“I’m in Arizona, Mike.”

“You joking?”

“Got into Phoenix early this morning.”

“Well, get the hell over here,” you tell him. There’s no reason for him to be alone on Christmas. Besides, who knows the last time Tim spent a real Christmas with his family? “How long will you be in town?”

“I don’t know,” comes the typical answer. He never does. “But I’ll see you soon.”

Tim shows up after dinnertime. 

“I missed you,” Tim tells you, his voice hoarse. 

You take a moment then roll your eyes. “Geez. Come here,” you pull him to you in a hug. “I thought you might be gone for good,” you say, even though Tim’s been in and out of your life on a regular basis. “Merry Christmas,” you say happily. “Asshole.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, not bothering to contest the matter. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course, where are my manners?” You thump him on the back as he enters your trailer. “Lori,” you holler. “Look who it is. The ghost of Christmas past,” you laugh.

Lori comes straight in, gives Tim a hug and a kiss. “How are you?” Lori asks. “You want a drink?”

Tim asks for a water and drops his backpack. You barrel toward him and give him another bear hug. “I can’t believe you’re here. You fought all that traffic on Christmas?”

“It was nothing,” he shrugs. He sticks his hands in his pockets. 

You keep an eye on Tim, out of habit, scared he might run again. You fool around a little, reaching for him, acting like the same dumb kids who joined the Army years ago. 

Lori comes back with a water bottle and a glass of eggnog for Tim. He thanks her politely. 

You point to the sofa, where he takes a seat. You sit beside him, a little too close, grabbing a blanket from the back of the sofa and throwing it over your legs.

The lights on the Christmas tree twinkle, blue and red and green, tiny lights reflecting off the Christmas ornaments.

“What’d I miss?” Tim asks cheerfully. 

“Nothing, man. Same as it ever was.”

Lori disappears again to work on cleaning up dinner, and you’re pleased to have a moment alone with Tim. You inch closer. 

Tim reaches for his neck - he must be sore from all that driving, keeping his eyes on the road for hours at a time. 

“You want to smoke?” you ask. You’ll have to wait for the kid to go to bed first.

Speak of the devil - your daughter Kayla wanders back into the living room, dragging her stuffed animal by the ear.

“Come here, critter,” you tell her, pulling her up onto your lap. “You want to say hi to Tim?”

She’s shy, but she likes Tim (your whole family does). She says “Hi Tim,” and waves her tiny, sticky hand. 

Tim smiles and waves back. “Merry Christmas. Who’s this?” he asks, pointing to her stuffed rabbit.

“Rabbit,” she answers stoically.

Tim gives the rabbit’s paw a handshake. It makes Kayla smile. She yawns, and you seize your moment. “All right, kiddo, time for bed.” You pick her up so you can carry her to bed. “Say night-night.”

“Night-night,” Tim repeats with a grin.

“Stuff is in the box on top of the fridge,” you call to Tim.

“What stuff?” Kayla asks.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You ready to go to sleep?” She leans her head against your shoulder and you carry her to her room. She’s still in her pajamas - thank goodness for Christmas - so you help her brush her teeth and get in bed. You read her _Goodnight Moon_ \- twice - and kiss her on the forehead before turning off the light.

By the time you come back to the living room, Tim’s got the box open on his knees. He’s breaking up the nug of weed the way you showed him, packing it carefully into the glass pipe. 

You open a window and light a stick of incense to disguise the smell of the pot. 

Tim passes you the bowl for greens, and you take a hit, passing it back. He takes an even bigger hit, coughing after. “Thanks,” Tim says appreciatively after his first hit, digging through his wallet for a few bucks. You stop his hand.

“Forget it, McVeigh. It’s Christmas.”

He takes another hit, releasing a long, smoky breath. “Damn.”

“Been a while, huh?” He nods in agreement. “Never should have left,” you smirk, even though it’s probably useless. 

Tim rolls his eyes. “Or you could just come with me,” he says with a little swagger. He’s tried to convince you before, talks about how it could just be the two of you; desperadoes. Partners. The two of you against the world. You like the sound of it, but you also like the life you live in Kingman. Maybe the two of you could do a short trip, somewhere not too far, but distant enough to appease Tim’s wanderlust. Maybe Lake Havasu or the Grand Canyon, or someplace down in Texas. You’d have to think about it, figure out what Tim would like best. Maybe if Tim stuck around through the New Year you could do it then. You’d spent so much time with Lori’s family over the past few weeks she’d probably be willing to oblige. It would only be for a day.

“So… you feeling the Christmas spirit yet?”

“Don’t know… listened to carols in the car but without a white Christmas…”

“Pun intended?” you joke with a wide smile. “Your family doing anything?” you ask him, knowing it might be a sore spot. Tim shakes his head.

“I sent Jen a letter,” he admits. “But who knows about everyone else.” He looks a little maudlin. 

“Fuck ‘em,” you say decisively. Tim agrees but you’re not sure if he believes it or not. You change the subject. “So do I get a present?” you joke.

“Let me finish this and you’ll see,” he replies, gesturing to his mug of eggnog.

“All I want for Christmas is you-u-u,” you sing, trying to hit the high notes (and failing). 

Lori walks in. “You two look cozy,” she comments, but keeps picking up trash. She disappears to wash her hands and comes back with another glass of eggnog for you. Instead of sitting down, she kisses you on the head, and gives Tim a hug. “I’m beat. Turn out the lights when you two finally drag yourselves to bed.”

“Night, babe.”

“Goodnight, Lori,” Tim echoes. 

You snuggle closer, satisfied that Kayla won’t see and not caring if Lori does. Your wife didn’t really mind what you and Tim got up to as long as she doesn’t have to answer any strange questions from Kayla. 

“So what’s new in the world of McVeigh?” you ask, tracing his skinny wrist with your finger. 

Tim shrugs. “Just tryin’ to make a buck.”

“And see the world?”

“I go where the road takes me.”

You lean your head against his. This just feels right. You wish he’d stick around longer. Every time. You know he likes the road too much.

“I miss Christmas with my family. My sister. Is that stupid?”

“Not at all, Tim.”

“Everywhere I drove there were Christmas lights, decorations, people being happy together… I just felt alone in the middle of it all.”

“Be happy with me,” you tell him. “I know it’s not the same.”

You watch him stare at your Nativity set. As much as he dislikes kids he’s good with them. He’s always wanted a family.

“Mike,” he starts. “I’m so fucking lonely.” There it was, the thing your mom had suspected for years. How do you tell him he doesn’t have to be? You press your nose against his neck. His skin is cold.

You change the subject. You point to a box under the tree. There’s another in the closet. “I got you a present.”

When Tim gets up and bends over to grab the boxes, you slap his ass. He spins around, cheeks bright red.

“This is the one Lori doesn’t know about,” you tell him about the heavy one stacked underneath the gift you picked out with your wife. 

Tim starts with the lumpy one that’s from you and Lori, which turns out to be an ugly sweater. Somehow it fits his vibe.

Tim works on unwrapping the second package, and you see him freeze when he sees its contents.

“Mike,” he breathes, and you know you made the right choice. He pulls the Glock 17 out of the case, runs his thin finger over the textured grip. “This is too much.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Thank you, Mike. I don’t know what to say.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Tim looks crestfallen. You wish he’d stop moping. It’s Christmas.

“What now?”

“I didn’t get you anything,” he says sadly. 

“You’re here. That’s enough.”

He puts the boxes on the floor so he can wind his arms around you. You tug the blanket back up over you both, settling into a comfortable position on the couch. Tim slots in beside you perfectly. It’s comfy, tucked against the side of the couch like this. 

“Merry Christmas, Tim,” you murmur, flexing your fingers against Tim’s shoulders.

“I hope I’m not imposing,” Tim replies nervously. 

“Shh,” you quiet him. “Of course not. I want you here.” You squeeze Tim’s arms. “It’s Christmas. Nobody should be alone on Christmas.”

“So it’s pity,” Tim surmises, and you roll your eyes.

“No. Would you just let yourself be happy?” 

“Sorry,” Tim apologizes. “Thank you. Really.” Tim leans his head on your shoulder.

You don’t know why the two of you have this familiarity with each other, where it started. You think maybe it began in the Army, both of you starved for touch. It was easy to let a hand linger too long on a shoulder, to let your sides brush for a moment too long. There was no other outlet for touch, for comfort, for companionship. It’s nice, and Lori doesn’t mind too much. It’s just one more thing to love about her. She’ll give you the side-eye when it’s in front of your daughter - _she shouldn’t see her Daddy like that_ , she was always saying - but like you said before, it’s Christmas. 

You watch the lights on the tree, surveying the scene. There’s wrapping paper strewn on the floor from this morning, toys for Kayla sitting in between empty boxes. 

The two of you work on the eggnog until you’re feeling warm and bubbly. You rub his knee under the blanket absent-mindedly. 

“Mike,” he laughs, almost uncomfortably. 

“You okay?” you check.

“Of course.” 

“Come here,” you tell him, and he blushes again. Tim looks into your eyes, and he’s already closer than he should be. 

“Where?” 

“Here,” you repeat, and grab the collar of his shirt. You reel him in and kiss him. It’s not that hard to close the distance between your mouths, to pull him into a subdued kiss. Your mouths meet, his lips soft under your own. 

“Should we be doing this?”

“It isn’t like you to care,” you joke.

“Mike.”

“It’s fine. We’re fine. Lori’s in bed, and besides, she doesn’t mind.” 

“You know I have a hard time believing that…”

You kiss him again. “We’re not even doing anything.”

“We’re not?”

“No,” you reply. “I’m just going to kiss you.” You look at him with greedy eyes before stealing another kiss. It’s slow and sweet, no pressure. Tim finally starts to relax, puts his hands on your shoulders. You make out aimlessly, playfully kissing his neck. 

“You remember 1990? Didn’t feel like Christmas then, either, but you fixed that.”

“What, in Kuwait? I remember it being _you_.”

“Maybe.”

“I was so damn lonely,” Tim says, which surprises you. It’s so vulnerable. 

“We were the only poor souls awake.”

“I remember lying back and looking at the moon. It was such a clear night.”

“I remember doing more than that,” you say suddenly. There had been a kiss, and come to think of it, it might have been the first one. Tim’s blushing and you can tell he remembers it, too.

You sneak your hand into his, knowing that nobody can see. There’s something about Tim that makes you feel like a kid again. 

_Christmas in the desert is dry and bleak. The troops are nostalgic for holidays back home, lonely for their families, for their friends. The staff sergeants haven’t taken any pity on the troops. They’d spent the day running drills, miserably, but day had finally given way to night._

_You and Tim are on fire watch again. You sit back to back under the stars at the edge of camp, choosing the cool night air over the stifling heat of a tent._

_“No letters?”_

_“No letters.” Tim sighs. “No surprise there.”_

_“I didn’t get anything, either.”_

_“Not from your girl back home?”_

_“Nah, nothing from Lori. Your sister didn’t send anything?”_

_Tim looks disheartened and shakes his head._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I’ve got bigger problems,” Tim sulks. “Look at this shithole.”_

_Nothing but desert for miles. Who wanted to be in Kuwait on Christmas Eve? Who wanted to be in Kuwait, period?_

_Tim goes on to tell you all about Christmas back home. It’s clearly his favorite time of year. Special memories with his sister, surprise gifts… he reluctantly admits that this is his first Christmas away from home._

_“I’ve got something,” you say, deciding it’s the perfect moment to try and cheer him up. You flip a flask from your pocket and offer it to your friend._

_“Aw,” Tim remarks. “It just doesn’t feel like Christmas, does it?”_

_You lean your head against his. You take a deep swig. “ _They’re singing deck the halls, but it don’t feel like Christmas at all. I remember when you were here, all the fun we had last year_ ,” you sing. Your voice isn’t anything to write home about, but it’s not terrible. _

_Tim grins._

_Inspired, Tim picks another song and begins to sing. He goes for an Alice Cooper cover of “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town”, hitting a few bum notes on the chorus._

_You respond with a serenade of “Blue Christmas”, which he follows with a rousing rendition of Queen’s “Thank God It’s Christmas”. Tim struggles to hit the high notes and you smile at his earnestness. He looks into your eyes when he sings the verse. “ _Oh my love, we live in troubled days. Oh my friend, we have the strangest ways. Thank God it’s Christmas_ ,” he sings with gusto._

_It’s a bizarrely peaceful moment amid this angry war, and it’s impossible not to be grateful for it, for Tim’s company. Tim always has a way of getting you to smile, so this feels like a small way to pay him back. Even though you started the Christmas carols, something about how well he takes it makes you pleased. You sing to each other, stupidly, childishly, but it feels festive. It makes it feel more like a holiday in this shithole._

_You scoot a little closer to share body heat, arms warmer where they’re pressed together._

_Tim keeps working on the flask. Eventually you steal it back. “You don’t want to be sick in the morning.” He’d always been a light drinker._

_Tim turns his palm face-up, slips it closer to your knee. You trace the lines on his palm with your index finger before taking his hand._

_Your heads lean in, mouths tilting closer, and then somehow in the middle of the dark night you’re kissing, lips moving against each other’s, so natural and smooth, like it’s the easiest thing in the world._

*

 _Aw, fuck_ , you think upon waking, realizing that your daughter is sitting on top of your feet. Tim is still tucked between you and the sofa, underneath your arm. Lori’s gonna go apeshit if she knows Kayla saw you and Tim like this, so you try to distract her without waking Tim up.

“Kayla… Come here, you little kangaroo,” holding a finger to your lips.

“Tim,” she cries, wanting to play, and you hush her.

“He’s asleep, baby girl, let’s leave him alone.” At least she likes him. You extricate yourself from Tim, pulling the blanket up over his thin frame. 

You set Kayla down on the floor. She runs back to her bedroom, content to play with some new Christmas toy.

Tim stirs. He slides his leg over your lap.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.

“I really missed you, by the fucking way,” you tell him. “I didn’t tell you yesterday, but I’m glad you’re here. A Christmas miracle.”

He rolls his eyes. “Not a miracle. Coincidence.”

You make breakfast for the two of you (which consists of pouring cereal and milk into two bowls and nothing more complicated than that). You eat in sleepy silence. 

Tim gets up afterward to wash the cereal bowls, like he always does.

“Hey Tim, come here,” you ask, shaking your head. You can’t believe he’s doing your dishes again. You watch him bend over to grab a dishtowel.

“What’s up?” he asks you.

“You want to come for dinner on New Year’s Eve?”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

“It’ll just be you and the family and my mom. Still trying to get my dad out here.”

“I hope he can make it.” Tim had struck up a genuine friendship with your father, his interest was sincere.

“Well, Lori’s promised that we all have to commit to is dinner. After that we’re free men.”

“Sounds like a plan. Fireworks?”

“Not in Arizona. Fire restrictions.”

“Oh yeah…”

“Shit, man. 1994.”

“Doesn’t feel real. _Tempus fugit_.”

“As long as Lori doesn’t insist we eat fruitcake, I’m good.”

“You’re a fruitcake,” Tim laughs.

“Seriously, that thing lasted until February of last year.”

“I’m sure it’ll turn out fine. Better than dinner with my family, at least.”

“Maybe I’ll meet them one day.”

“Maybe one day,” he agrees. “Jen, at least.”

“Can’t be all bad if they turned out you.”

“You’d be surprised, Mike, you’d be surprised.”

*

New Year’s dinner is uneventful, boring, traditional. 

Tim does the washing up, much to your mother’s mixed chagrin and joy. It gives your parents a chance to play with Kayla, although your dad is clearly more interested in talking with Tim. You’re pleased they’re buddies. The fact that your whole family (including your wife) likes him makes this all so much easier. You don’t want Tim to be a point of contention. You don’t want to have to hide him from anyone.

You work at your whiskey, watching everyone from the corner. Your mom is working on a puzzle with Kayla while Lori snaps photos. Your dad and Tim are drinking beers in the kitchen; you can see them through the doorway. 

Your dad beckons you to the kitchen, so dutifully, you enter and join the conversation. “Tim tells me you got him a Glock for Christmas.”

Your eyes go wide. “Shh,” you say, checking behind you. “That was supposed to be a secret!”

“Sorry,” Tim apologizes. “I couldn’t resist.”

Your dad grins. “Oh, I understand,” he laughs.

You slip past Tim to dump your glass in the sink, your hand trailing against Tim’s lower back as you do. It’s not something your dad can see - it’s just for the two of you.

“If you have to show him, do it outside. Away from the girls.”

“Yeah, yeah,” your dad says. “Lead the way, Tim.”

You look for your pack of cigarettes before joining them on the deck. You stick a cigarette between your lips and watch Tim show off his Christmas present with pride. He’s gentle with it, like it’s prized, meaningful.

You did well. He loves it. 

Your dad is proud, too. “Now how come I don’t get one of those?” he kids.

“I don’t know, sir,” Tim says innocently. Brat.

“Well done, Mike.”

“Thanks, Dad. Next year’s all you.”

It’s a nice night, moon rising, and you’re happy to have your family here. You wonder how you got so lucky. Eventually your dad goes inside, leaving you alone with Tim. He’s still messing with the gun.

“Put it away,” you tell him, and he does.

You push him into the dark and kiss him. “Happy New Year.” Your mouth finds his again. It’s quick. You can’t risk anyone finding you out here, not like this. “We’re getting out of here. Soon,” you promise.

“Really?”

You nod. “Yeah. We finish up this family shit then we’re outta here. I’ve got a surprise.”

“Another one?”

“Yep.”

Tim reaches for your shirt, tugs on the hem. “Can’t wait.”

“I bet you can’t…. I can guarantee you’ve never seen anything like it.”

Tim looks surprised. You tug him back inside - can’t have the girls noticing you’ve been gone too long.

You find your parents packing up and giving your wife and daughter hugs. “Heading home already?”

“I don’t think I’ve stayed up until midnight in the last decade, honey.”

“You all have fun,” your dad chimes in.

“Well, thanks. Have a safe drive back.” You hug them goodbye, and so does Tim.

Not long after your parents leave, Lori puts Kayla to bed. When she finally returns, she huffs a little, hands on her hips.

“Christ, Mike, your parents have barely been gone half an hour.”

“Come on, Lori, have a little fun,” you tell her, knowing she’ll probably join in at some point.

Reluctantly, she sits on your other side. The three of you sit around talking for an hour or two, passing around a glass pipe until you’re all sufficiently fucked up.

“I’m going to bed,” Lori eventually tells you, giving in to the need for sleep. 

“Fine. I’ll kiss Tim at midnight,” you laugh, but you’re serious. Tim jostles you under the blanket.

“Do whatever you want,” she says (permission). “Just don’t burn anything down, okay? Happy New Year, boys.”

You give her a kiss since she won’t be awake at midnight. The crystal was sure to keep you and Tim up even later than that. “Love you, babe.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves her hand and disappears down the hall. 

“How do you want to end the year?” Tim asks.

“High.” It’s a good answer. 

Tim flips through the TV channels, settling on a rerun of _Jurassic Park_. You and Tim talk through the movie until it gets close to midnight, when you steal the remote and switch everything off. You start counting down, but Tim rolls his eyes. “Don’t be cliche,” he remarks, but you keep going with the countdown.

“Three… two… one…” 

You and Tim stare at each other.

He’s the one - not you - that pulls you into a kiss at the stroke of midnight. 

*

The drive to Lake Mohave the next morning only takes an hour, but you stretch it out to ninety minutes. You don’t have a lead foot like Tim does, and only about a tenth of his road rage. 

It’s a beautiful day, sky pure cobalt blue with wisps of white cloud streaking across it like cotton candy. It’s a perfect day to have free time and to be on the road.

Tim’s arm is braced on the window, baking in the Nevada sun. He looks at home like this. You’re glad he agreed to this; he’s been bugging you to get on the road with him whenever he can. You’ve forgotten how it feels to get away, even if it’s just for the day.

You turn the radio on, finding a classic rock station that will appease you both. Tim starts to nod his head to the music, and you’re pleased with how relaxed he looks. That’s the whole point of today. Tim’s so high-strung lately, coiled tight, and you can’t figure him out. So you’re doing this instead, stealing him away, taking him on the easy drive to Lake Mohave, a shining blue oasis in the middle of the desert.

It’s just what you need. Sometimes everybody just needs to disappear.

Here, you can be yourselves, away from your lives, with nothing distracting you but sky and sun and cerulean water.

Tim looks over, catches you staring. He smiles, and you feel something warm in your chest, something unnameable. 

You look back at the road. It’s not much longer before you pull up to the sandy shores of the reservoir. Part of the Colorado River, the lake straddles sixty-seven miles of the Arizona-Nevada border. 

Dust kicks up as you pull into a parking space, and Tim helps you unload the car, unpacks lawn chairs and beers. Tim throws a cap on to block the sun, stands a little too close as you shut the trunk. 

“I wish I had a boat,” you complain. “There’s something like 200 private beaches.”

Tim didn’t even get that at his sister’s in south Florida. It’s not until you’re a few beers in that Tim taunts you. “I bet we can find one,” he grins.

“Shut up,” you tell him. 

“I’m serious,” he insists. Before you can stop him, he’s up and heading over to one of the docks. 

“Tim. Tim!” you call. You follow him, unable to believe what he’s doing. “One of these’ll work,” he promises with a grin. He starts wandering around, looking for keys.

“You’re fucking crazy. What the hell are you doing?” You know this is illegal. After sneaking from boat to boat, Tim pops his head up. He’s dangling a pair of keys in his hand. You follow him into the boat and he starts the motor.

You shake your head in disbelief.

“What?” he grins. You’re jealous. “Nobody has to know.”

“Have you done this before?”

“Stolen a boat? No.”

“Drive one…”

“How hard can it be?”

You shake your head. This won’t end well. You find a spot on the motorboat where you can see the water as well as Tim. His smile is contagious. 

The boat sputters across the lake, leaving a wake behind it. 

“Private beach, huh?” Tim asks. You look around at the coves already filled with people.

“Keep going,” you tell him. There’ll be space for you somewhere. 

Tim steers the boat through the blue water. It’s really beautiful. You trek through the lake and motor around a curve. The cove reveals a rocky, empty beach.

“Bingo,” Tim tells you.

You say a silent prayer that he doesn’t crash the boat as he tries to get you closer to the beach. He manages to land, and you lead the way. “How about that?” you ask.

You dig your toes in the sand. You turn your faces up to the sun, soaking in the rays. The air is cold but the sun is bright and warm. It feels good on your skin.

You set up the cooler and you take a seat, helping yourself to a Corona and offering one to Tim. “Look at you, holding still for more than five minutes,” you joke. 

Tim cracks the neck of his beer bottle against yours. “I like it here. With you,” he says, and you shiver at his specificity.

“I’m looking out for you, kid,” you say, even though he’s older than you (barely).

Tim bites his lip. Tim’s traveled more than you, so you’re pleased that there’s still something new to show him. The lake’s water is the color of his eyes, you think dumbly. 

The moment passes. Tim grabs a book from his bag, a dog-eared copy of _The Turner Diaries_.

“Are you kidding me right now? No!” You grab the paperback and fling it into the sand.

“Fuck you, Mike,” he complains. “The hell?”

“I can’t believe you brought a book, McFly,” you say, mock upset, crossing your arms. “Not only that, you brought one you’ve read a million times. I’m not more interesting than that?”

“Well… entertain me.” Tim puts his hands on his narrow hips.

You scramble up, out of the sand and move toward the narrow opening in the rock formation surrounding the cove. You push him against the rock wall, press his back against it. He smiles, and you lean in to kiss him. 

Tim puts one hand on your waist and kisses you back. This is all yours, this place, this moment. Tim feels good under your palms, in all the places you smooth them across his skin. 

“This is incredible,” Tim says, and he must mean the cove, but he’s only looking at you. “I can’t believe you hid this from me,” Tim grins. “I’ve been all over the world, never seen anything like it.”

His hand feels impossibly big where it’s cradling your jaw, thumb brushing against your stubble.

“Tim,” you say, savoring his name on your mouth, because he’s really here, not a voice on the phone or hidden in a folded-up letter, and then he kisses his name from your lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Mike wasn't in Desert Storm and McVeigh was only overseas for a few months in early 1991. Sue me.


End file.
